


The Unbearable Fierceness of Reckoning

by lousy_science



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types, DC Cinematic Universe, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Bears, Crack, M/M, not those kind of bears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-10 10:36:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2021880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lousy_science/pseuds/lousy_science
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Bear.</b> Noun; Pronunciation: /bɛə(ɹ)/; Origins: Middle English <i>bere</i>, Old English <i>bera</i>, Proto-Germanic <i>*berô</i>, Proto-Indo-European <i>*bʰer-</i>; Plural: bears</p><p>1. A large omnivorous mammal, related to the dog and raccoon, having shaggy hair, a very small tail, and flat feet; a member of family Ursidae, particularly of subfamily Ursinae.</p><p>2. (finance) An investor who sells commodities, securities or futures in anticipation of a fall in prices. [1744]</p><p>3. (slang, US) A state policeman (short for smokey bear). [1970s] </p><p>4. (slang) A gay man that generally has one or more of the following traits; a hairy chest and body, a beard, wide shoulders, husky build, beefy, more masculine. The exact definition of what a bear look like varies from person to person. A defining quality of a bear is that they do not fit into contemporary gay culture, or the stereotypical gay image. <i>See also: Large and in Charge, John Goodman, Number One Threat to America, Godless Killing Machines.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Close Encounters with the Wildlife of Gotham City

 

John Blake was known for his balance. He was the dude who could do a back flip after sinking beers all night with other cops. Who would scale a tree to rescue a poor kid’s lost kitten, or more often some drunken frat bro’s missing iPhone. It’s about control. About always maintaining how everyone else sees you. He uses it everyday to diffuse situations, like with certain fine citizens of Gotham who have a negative reaction to the police (and John gets it, he really does, way more and way deeper than any of the people leading sensitivity training seminars in the precinct).

Bringing order and calm was something that came easily to him. He had developed a sense for when to use humor, when to let someone salvage their pride, and when to be a little Dirty Harry.

People often think the police force is about control. Of course it is when the system’s inefficient or broken. But at its best, John believes, it’s about balance. When you’ve got years of experience dealing with a bunch of parentless boys who don’t grasp the concept of ‘indoor voices’, there are the tools you’re already good with: tone, stance, empathy, patience. And balance. Being able to relate to a loud, angry kid helped, too.

John had done enough martial arts training to have considered the Yin Yang symbol at length. For all order, there must be chaos: that is true balance.

Chaos found John Blake shirtless in a gay club at 8pm downing Sambucca shots.

This really wasn’t how he typically supported the Girl Scouts of America.

 

=

 

“Can you believe this?”

The flier was pushed across the locker room bench towards where John and his partner Tony were sitting. John was closest, so he had to take it from Murray.

It was neon colored and shiny, from a distance identical to the thousands of club promos clogging up the gutters of Gotham. This one was mocked up like a retro teen girl’s magazine cover, except instead of a teenage female, the model crammed into a tiny Scout uniform was a distinctly mature, hairy, frankly voluptuous male. The font screamed: _Come to a Big, Brawny, Grizzly Get Together! Gotham’s 4 th Annual Bearapalooza Bar Crawl in honor of the Fur Scouts of Bearmerica_.

A trapdoor opened up in John’s gut and his stomach fell through it. His mouth went dry, but before Murray could say anything more his partner Tony started reading from out loud over his shoulder.

“With a performance by Destiny’s Chub featuring Bearyonce Knowles,”

Tony snorted, and John let himself smile as his partner grabbed the flier and read more to the rest of the locker room. “And everyone through the doors before 9pm gets a free box of Thin Mints.”

Murray did not pick up on Tony’s amused tone of voice. “It’s _disgusting_ ,”

“You more of a Samoas man?”

“It’s the Girl goddamn _Scouts_ , Giardello. They’re using them to promote some kind of –” here Murray stopped to wave his hands in little circles of pique “ - gay sex party.”  
He tried to grab the flier back from him, but Tony was too quick, leaping up onto the bench.

“Well now, I didn’t know you could get a merit badge for that.”

The rest of the room began to join in.

“Wait, do the cookies taste gayer when you eat them?”

“You think it’s a cream filling, but really – ”

“Wait, cookies make you gay? Larry, your wife just got one more thing to worry about, you fatass.”

“Larry’s wife would be fuckin’ thrilled if- ”

John usually didn’t like watching people get piled on, but Officer Carl T. Murray was an exception to that rule. He was an officious, smug, prick whose default settings were stuck at perpetual outrage. Murray would need a sense of humour before he got the irony of bitching about a gay club night in the richly homoerotic fantasy location of a police changing room.

It wasn’t remotely titillating, of course, to actually be there every day getting changed while Larry admistered the sniff test to his chonies. Years of enforced group showers and sharing dorms had eroded any capacity for John to find compulsory nudity sexy.

While everyone was having fun mocking Murray’s outrage (“Think Jones over there has the legs for the uniform Murray?” “You guys are sick in the head!” “We’re not the ones who picked the flier up are we?”), John didn’t feel that this was the time to mention he had a song by Bearforce 1 on one of his Spotify playlists. The GCPD wasn’t exactly a rainbow union. Soon the inevitable questions started up.

“What do they mean, bears?”

“Look at this fat fuck,”

“Like, hairy guys. Grizzly truckers, I dunno.”

“Get the fuck outta here, there’s a market for that? Damn, Larry, are you hearing this?”

John made that he was looking as his phone as he rushed out, punching Tony on the shoulder in goodbye. Tony Giardello was the best cop John could have hoped to have been paired with, wise and generous with advice, with no layer of contempt for his rookie partner. Still, John was very good at compartmentalising his life, and he had no need to experience the collision when the concept of bear culture was introduced to Gotham’s police force. Tony was a thoroughly decent guy, but he’d make no attempt at LGBT-friendly terms when it came to making fun of people in the locker room.

The irony was that anything the cops of the 23rd Precinct had wanted to know about bears, John probably could’ve told them. He had never been drawn to the gay club scene for any prolonged amount of time, instead preferring to take his sexual frustration to the gym or Craigslist like any normal person. But he sure knew about bears. As well as cubs, and chasers, and various other labels he didn’t want to be slapped with. John was about balance, and there were only so many identities he wanted to juggle. But he’d lusted after bears even before he found out there was a name for them.

That discovery had occurred around two weeks after John had gotten the internet connection in his apartment. For most of his life he had used the computers at the library or in internet cafes. His roommate at GCPD training had been shocked that he’d never had a laptop of his own and would sometimes share his with John. When he finally got one – a graduation gift from Father Reilly– he’d used the wifi at a local Starbucks for a few months. When he added up the cost of all those iced teas, he figured he might as well get it in his place. Fourteen days later he had his aha! moment, during a midnight porn binge brought on by insomnia and loneliness.

It wasn’t that John exclusively lusted after guys much bigger than him. But as a teenager he’d liked professional wrestlers a whole bunch. Then there had been Mr. White, who taught shop at school, and had arms like ham hocks which he’d rest either side of John as he stood behind him at the workbench. The occasional group of construction workers at a  worksite he’d make an extra effort to pass by; Gregor, the roly-poly accountant with perpetual five o’clock shadow who did St Swithin’s books; some of the ‘Before’ as well as ‘After’ shots in _Men’s Health._  

That fateful night he sat in the pale glow of the monitor with eight tabs of near-identical sleek young white twinks joylessly sucking and fucking each other. He opened a new tab and typed _big hairy gay guys._ It was during his James Gandolfini phase. 

The name of the first site he clicked through to was lost to the ages, but the images on it were seared on his memory. _Bears_ , he thought, once he had gathered some of his blown-out brain cells into a reasonable heap. _There’s a name for them_.

John didn’t spent a lot of time on those sites after the first couple of weeks – okay, months – of revelatory beating-off. He did his off-line research with more subtlety, picking up the occasional magazine, scanning the relevant bookshelves in the more liberal bookstores, and going on sporadic explorations to bars hosting bear nights.

Balance: a night out every few months was enough. John was aware that he liked the atmosphere of the scenes he’d encountered, the body acceptance on show and the lack of pretentions in the crowd. Sometimes he’d go home with someone and have a good time.

But that wasn’t his life. His life was on the beat alongside Tony, his days off full of coaching basketball and helping with math homework or tracking down runaways. There was working out, getting his apartment furnished and keeping it neat – that was the one stereotype that he willingly embraced – then there was the gym, his dojo, evening classes, trips to the gun range. When the locker room boasting started up, he just switched gender pronouns around. No one had ever come along in his life to made him feel strongly enough to quit doing that. Sometimes he could admit to himself that he wished they would.

That wasn’t what he was thinking when he decided to check out Bearapalooza. It was more along the lines of, _Fuck you, Murray, at least_ I _can get laid when I want to._

 

=

 

The first spot on the bar crawl was Blackgate Pub, a place John had been in before. There had been bears that time, but not this many, this early in the evening. Plenty of reunions from previous crawls were going on as John made his way to the bar. There were boxes of cookies for sale with outrageously marked-up prices. People were still buying them, and one guy had already pressed an assortment of flavors to his round belly and invited passers-by to eat them off. Volunteers were already flocking around.

The guy tending bar was more wolf than bear. John asked him about the cookies. “One of the organisers, his granddaughter is a scout. We raised enough money last year to send the troop on a wilderness trek.”

He laughed at that, the loose, living laugh that only came to him when he in a room like this. There weren’t many places in Gotham where he could feel this relaxed. He was confident that any cop who saw him here would have a good reason of his own not to blab. Still, he did a quick scan of the room for familiar faces.

Then the Theme from _Shaft_ started playing and a gentleman called Jeb introduced himself and asked if he could buy John a drink.

 

 

=

 

 

“QUEEN OF THE NIGHT! Queen of the night - OOH YEAH! _Ooh yea-ahhh_ ,”

Shit got real at the gay club when The Bodyguard soundtrack hit. John had at least five hands on him at once, and he did a long, shimmery body roll for their benefit. All around him were bears, all around the bears were more bears, everything was bears and nothing hurt.

 

Those Sambucca shots Jed had bought him had been a great idea. He owed Murray a drink. Maybe Murray would like Sambucca? Nah, Murray was a dick.

 

Speaking of dicks – that was one pressing against his hip. And it seemed to belong to the skeezy guy with sewer breath that John had already had to duck away from three times that evening. It was enough to break him out of the fluffy cloud in his head and slide off of the throbbing dance floor. Checking his pockets  for his phone and wallet – his shirt was long gone – he decided it was a good time to get some air. Weaving in between the glorious bellies bouncing to the beat and the hefty arms stuck in the air, he made for the door.

“Hey, you getting the bus?”

John moved his face to where the voice had come from. “Bus?”

The speaker was a forty-something ginger John recognised as one of the organisers.

“The next leg of the crawl, to Decadence.”

John knew Decadence, a club about three blocks over. He usually dismissed it as being thoroughly cheesy, but with Whitney ringing in his ears it sounded like the greatest idea ever.

“You’re a genius! Decadence, yeah,”

The ginger frowned and patted him on the shoulder. “Be safe out there, OK?”

John laughed like a drain at that. Safe! Safety was like his middle name, if his middle name wasn’t actually his name, and anyway he was a cop now so if anyone should be talking about safety it was him, the cop guy, and actually yeah, maybe he would get some fresh air after all.

 

Gotham night air always tasted sweet to John. It was like the pollution went away with the daylight, and it had never felt as good as did when he staggered out of The Blinding Light. The burn of alcohol in his system keep the chill away as he peeled off from the groups spilling out of the club. He heard snatches of conversation around him, about a hot order who’d been spotted earlier that night, and it took John a moment to realise that they were saying “otter” not “order”. Damn, was he ever wasted. Maybe, he figured, he should walk over to Decadence, get some more air and let the  booze settle.

 

It wasn’t just the drinking that had him dazed. It was a rare treat to rub up against all these big, beautiful, male bodies. Crossing over a deserted stretch of Flynn Street he made a bargain with himself: no more drinking, just water. He’d stay for no more than an hour and then go home alone, because he could feel his defences slipping. It was a fine pep talk, and he turned up the last street feeling sturdier.

 

Decadence was lit up like a drag queen’s Christmas tree. Walking towards it, John watched the people ahead of him going to the club. It was ninety percent men, older guys than the usual crowd, with a couple of leather queens and lumberjacks sprinkled through the crowd. Some were by themselves like John, like that guy walking on the opposite side of the road, the one in the heavy boots and cargos and military-style vest and _holy shit_

 

The hottest guy John had seen all night. Possibly ever. Built like a tank, with guns to spare, he was like every sweetest masculine cliché put together. The swagger, the shaved head, the determined profile. And just to make John’s night, this vision right out of his sweatiest daydreams was striding towards a gay club on Gotham’s biggest bear night of the year.

 

John threw up a quick prayer to the sacred spirit of Divine and broke into a jog. Screw dignity. He needed to move quickly before his traitorous brain started throwing logic in the way of his baser instincts.

 

Floating over kerb on a cloud of alcohol and pheromones, he almost got body-checked by the briskly walking man. Raising his hands up like a disciple, John smiled big and stupidly, trying to transmit his presence before his prey disappeared into the club. He managed to suck in enough oxygen to blurt out, “Hey-I’m-John-you-meeting-anyone-or-can-I-buy-you-a-drink-huh?”

 

The ‘huh’ was an inadvertent side effect of seeing that face up close. The jagged scars that ran across it highlighted an intimidating, almost ludicrous handsomeness. Even looking down at John with a scowl, it was quite something. Enough to make him laugh, that big laugh he only rarely used, and reach forward to balance himself by grabbing this disgustingly good-looking guy right there on the street.

 

 

Bane looked down at the young man who had attached himself to his torso with both speed and enthusiasm.

 


	2. Throw Your Paws in the Air Like You Just Don’t Care.

 

This was an unlikely place for an ambush, Bane considered, from a strategic point of view. But he had to abandon any assumptions about his enemy’s tactics. The forces that would strike against him wouldn’t necessarily consider the presence of a nearby civilian crowd as a deterrent.

 

Bane had been taking one of his nightly walks, committing the city streets to his mind. There was only so much useful data you could pick up through a map or other people’s reports. He preferred to have a sense memory. This corner of the city was not one of his priorities, which was why he’d never set foot on Flynn Street in the eight months he’d been in Gotham.

 

An indirect attack would most likely force him to retreat to one of the two alleyways jutting off the east side of the street. He was more valuable alive than dead, he knew, otherwise a sniper would have taken him out the first week he arrived in the city. Bane refused to hide, regardless.

 

The man leaning into him was shirtless, something many martial arts experts preferred. He smelled strongly of alcohol and had a spray of glitter across his shoulders. Not typical of the fighters Bane had faced. Perhaps his appearance was part of a diversionary tactic.

 

“Sorry, I stumbled – I’m usually not this clumsy, I swear – uh, about that drink. You’re not meeting someone are you?”

 

It was not a code phrase he recognized. Bane stared at him a little longer, thinking he would unsettle the wide smile being directed at him, then shook his head.

 

The smile stayed on. Not easily intimidated, this one. He was lifting his hands off from Bane’s vest but not moving backwards. While not being practiced at Western social codes, Bane knew that they were standing in atypically close proximity. He grasped the stranger’s hands and rolled his thumbs over them. “Did you say your name was John?”

 

“Yeah! Oh, yeah. I thought you – anyway, should we go in? Or…”

 

John was looking transfixed at his hands, clasped in Bane’s own. He didn’t look scared, which spoke to either intoxication, stupidity, or the suicidal zealotry of a terrorist. Bane couldn’t work it out. His fingers had the calluses both of a fighter and someone used to firing guns. Bane released them, looking beyond John to see if there were incoming reinforcements. Two cars sped past, and a busload full of large men stopped near where they were standing. It was a loud event but John’s attention didn’t waver from him. He even dared to grab hold of Bane’s right arm and move him towards the building with all the lights and noise.

 

Bane had a number of choices. He could easily break away, if need be after incapacitating this “John”. He could move him to an alleyway and conduct an interrogation – although that was bound to be futile, this youth was either a reckless idiot or a highly trained operative – or he could follow, and find out more.

 

He followed.

 

The enterprise they were heading to was called Decadence, which was apt for Gotham, although he had personally witnessed vastly greater examples of decadence firsthand. Ra’s’ giant palace compounds, or even just one of Vandal Savage’s private residences, were far greater vulgarities. It was exactly that sort of overt opulence built off exploitation and bloodshed that had moved Bane on to his current project. It was a trajectory that had angered many, but he knew what he did was just. Wariness was an essential companion to those who wish to effect change.

 

The men – and they were all male, Bane noted – gathering outside all looked at them coming in. They didn’t assume positions of defense, though some puffed up their chests as he and John approached and a few drew their partners closer to them. Some even smiled at Bane and raised their eyebrows. That was unusual. He wondered whether drug use was prevalent in this area.

 

A man stationed by the entrance motioned for them to walk through. It was an inessential movement, as Bane had never encountered a door he could be prevented from entering, but if it was a sign of this establishment’s pathetic idea of ‘security’ he had little to be wary of. John seemed to be agitated, tugging Bane down one of the corridors inside that led away from what appeared to be a central gathering area.

 

“I’m just not crazy about being stared at, are you? It just feels like a meat market. Which I guess it is, and geez, you must think I’m pretty forward,”

 

He paused in his chatter. Bane looked down at him. John asked, “Does it bother you?”

  
Bane heaved his shoulders in a shrug. “I am used to drawing attention.”

 

“Well, yeah, I bet you are. Especially in a place like this.”

 

Just what kind of place this was, Bane was still unsure. He had glimpsed a few women, and a few more men dressed as women, but the majority of the crowd were men, and a certain body type and wardrobe style prevailed. He was used to large crowds of hefty men, but in a different context. This was nothing like entering a training arena or taking charge of a squadron. There was more flannel, for a start, and long beards that would be impractical in hand-to-hand combat. The atmosphere wasn’t charged with aggression, but with joviality and celebration. Most strange.

 

It wasn’t that Bane had never been inside a nightclub. But only for purely business reasons. However if this was a plan to disarm him, it would not work. The crowd here was intoxicated, and Bane had enough experience with substance use to know how that affected physiology.

 

Then there was this John creature to consider.

 

Currently he was squeezing Bane’s arms, muttering something about a gun show. Bane rejected this nonsensical phrase as having anything to do with actual weaponry, besides with his hands tucked under Bane’s biceps the man was in no good position to reach for any. His legs could be a threat, however, with a well-placed kick or a hidden blade – Bane remembered all too well the spike-pointed boots Lady Vic had in her possession – but he was braced to pivot quickly if needed.

 

John was the one to move first. He had spotted a gap in the line for the bar and moved in, tugging at Bane’s arm as if he intended him to join him. Warily, Bane approached.

 

“What’ll you have? Name it. It’s on me, of course.”

 

Bane paused. American societal customs were still hazy to him, and he was not sure whether acceptance was proper or would rile the odd young man.

 

John swatted his arm. “Go on! Least I can do after groping you like a, hmmmm, anyway… A beer? I’m having one.”

 

They had the bartender’s attention. He was looking both of them with a knowing half-smile that reminded Bane of a sociopathic mercenary he had once worked with in Budapest.

 

“A Leffe Blonde, please.”

 

“Make that two, thank you!”

 

“You enjoy it?” Bane was strangely pleased by John’s good manners. He was also curious – most Americans seemed to prefer domestically brewed beer.

 

“I’ve never actually had it, but to be honest, I’m wasted already.”

 

Taking the drinks off of the counter and tipping generously, he handed Bane a chilled glass. Bane pressed up against the bar next to him to avoid having his back vulnerable for an attack. From this vantage point he could monitor seventy percent of the room’s action without moving his head. Not ideal, but few impromptu surveillance situations were.

 

John clinked their glasses together, and looked up at him. His smile was no longer as bold as it had been on their initial encounter. Suddenly shy, he looked away from Bane’s eyes and took a gulp of the beer.

  
“Do you like it?”

 

John took a second drink, and looked back to him. “Yeah, it’s not what I’m used to. Fruitier. S’good.”

 

Bane glanced over John’s shoulder. Two men were grappling with each other next to the bar. They were not fighting, but kissing. Another man approached them, however instead of the conflict Bane anticipated they broke apart only to let him join in, mashing all their faces together.

 

This was not what he was used to either.

 

“You ever been here before? I don’t even know your name,”

 

“I am Bane.” Affected ignorance or not, there was no point to Bane hiding who he was.

 

“Hello, Bane.” John took another swig. Bane drank as well. He enjoyed this beer and hadn’t known it was readily available in this country. Since coming to Gotham he had built a small wine collection for personal use. Briefly, he wondered whether John was a wine drinker. 

 

“To answer your question, I have never been to this place before. I rarely attend such gatherings.”

 

“I getcha. Most of the time, believe it or not, neither do I.” John laughed again, and then brushed his leg against Bane’s. “But it’s a good cause. The Scouts, I mean. They do great work empowering young girls – I volunteer with kids and know how important it is to engage them.”

 

Scouts? Bane was not familiar with this collective. Were they a local gang, a low-scale version of the League of Shadows or Oswald Copperpot’s goons? Youth recruitment was critical to building up a powerful network of fighters prepared to die for a cause.

 

“Every child deserves to reach their full potential. Leadership, guidance, and access to education is crucial for personal development.”

 

John blinked. “That’s very true.”

 

“A toddler increases their vocabulary at the rate of a word every two hours. We should all strive to learn with such intensity.”

 

John laughed. Bane frowned. “No, I’m not laughing at you. It’s just, most single guys don’t want to talk about child development. When I try to talk about it they just blank out – I’m teaching some of them chess, and this one kid Marco, he is a little superstar at it. And he’s dyslexic, so it’s an even bigger achievement.”

 

“You play chess?” This had to be a set-up. Chess was his preferred occupation. That would be in any decent profile of him that a well-equipped enemy would’ve prepared.

 

“I’m not great at it. I only started because Gord– my boss, um, my mentor sort of, he encourages us to try it out.”

 

Bane swirled the last of his beer in the glass. This talk was momentarily engaging, but he was still waiting for the tell to indicate just who had employed John to waylay him.

  
“Will you excuse me?”

 

Perhaps this was it. John brushed past him with more contact than was necessary and headed towards the other end of the narrow room.

 

Bane made no sudden moves. There was no need to show nerves. If an ambush was planned, he would find a way to use it against whoever dared assault him.

 

After one minute twelve seconds, he reached for his phone and sent a short message to Barsad. He was presently in Managua working on a personal task, but kept tabs on the status of Bane’s opponents. In his recent reports to Bane there had been no mention of any planned attacks, but he sent off a quick description of John and requested any relevant intel.

 

Once he replaced the phone, a hand rested on his shoulder.

  
“Woah Nelly, you’re a big guy, ain’t ya? Look like you lost a fight to a Weed Wacker though,”

 

It was stranger, a man in the standard flannel worn over a t-shirt advertising something called an Ozzfest. His words were slurred and his breath stank of cheap spirits and a diet unnecessarily high in processed carbohydrates.

 

“C’mon Chad,” said another man as he tried to pull him away, but Chad put more of his weight on Bane.

 

“Lookit you, brah. What do you lift?”

 

If this was a planned assassination, it was astonishingly poorly executed. Bane felt pity for the man as he wondered whether he should lift him by his neck or aim for his gut.

 

“Ignore him, man, he’s fucking smashed.” Chad’s friend yanked at him and more or less threw him towards the exit. “You’re cute, so I’m sorry I gotta go.”

 

They departed and Bane remained by the bar, flummoxed. John reappeared. He looked concerned.

 

“Who was that? Friends of yours?”

 

Bane shrugged. “I have no idea who they were.”

 

“I kinda suspected you’d be surrounded by the time I came back, but I had to piss forever.”

 

“As far as I am aware there is no one I know in this building.”

 

John leaned closer. “Would you like to find somewhere a little less crowded?”

 

Gently pushing him towards a darkened corner of the room, John pressed his body up against Bane and smiled foxily.

  
“Do you kiss?”

 

Bane was familiar with the honey trap tactic, but had never anticipated it being used on him. “Kiss?”

 

He had neutral feelings about kissing. On one hand, it was a way to spread disease quickly. On the other, there was recently published evidence that kissing was a way to strengthen immunity and check the compatibility of potential partners. It was often celebrated in art and literature. Bane himself had kissed seven people and not disliked it. With the exception of that one altercation with Dr. Isley.

 

Letting John move him up to the wall, Bane tilted his head to allow him access to his neck. It was a risky move in combat, but Bane felt that the young man was unlikely to strike at him in any visible manner considering the milieu and his obvious size advantage.

 

Reaching down, he brushed John’s tight jean pockets with enough force for it to seem lecherous, not investigative. Judging by the enthusiastic response John let out – a sort of grinding motion combined with a wet swipe at Bane’s earlobe – it was an effective diversion. It produced a new sensation for Bane. Not an entirely unpleasant one. Shelving that thought, he ran the side of his finger over the embossed name on the bankcard he’d slid from the wallet. A second later it was back in his pocket, and Bane was running the name _Robin John Blake_ through his memory.

 

John pressed his hands on either side of Bane’s sternum and placed a kiss just over his t-shirt’s collar. Then he scraped his teeth across the same patch of skin. Bane bent his head down.

  
“That get your attention?” John hands were hot as they slid under the edges of Bane’s vest.

 

Bane remained still as John’s eyes fluttered closed and he titled up on his toes to kiss him. He could not place the name – in his life he’d encountered around two hundred people named John, about twelve Blakes, and six Robins. No previous combination of the three.

 

John’s kissing was soft, Bane observed, light and tentative – he kept moving along Bane’s lips, teasing at them with a tiny amount of suction. It had none of the messy wetness apparent in the kisses he had witnessed earlier.

 

Bane palmed the contents of John’s other pocket and moved his head to be able to glance at it. This gave John’s mouth more purchase upon his, and his brow creased with concentration as if it was difficult applying the little kitten-licks to the inside of Bane’s lips. An amusing sight, but Bane quickly shifted his attention to the smart phone in his hand.

 

An older model, two or three years old, with a standard password lock. It was a WayneTech phone, which meant it would be harder to hack. Wayne Enterprises had the best cyber security available in the general electronics market. Bane shifted the phone back to John’s pocket as he engaged with the kiss more. It was rare for him to practice this particular activity, and John didn’t seem to have any palatable tracking devices or other threatening objects in his oral cavity. He tasted pleasantly of Bane’s favorite beer and certainly brought eagerness to the task.

 

Bane tried applying a similar suction to John’s top lip. Perhaps he overdid it, because John momentarily froze, then leaned into him again. Then he reached his wrists around Bane’s neck and shoved his tongue far further into his mouth. Sucking, Bane concluded, was desirable.

 

He drew his arms around John and held him closer. It eliminated most forms of violent retaliation.


	3. Struck By a Bear

 

By the time they reached John’s apartment John was tucked into Bane’s armpit. During the ride there in an ill-smelling cab Bane had checked his phone while John bounced in his seat next to him, singing something about a “disco stick” and laughing. He was wearing Bane’s own black t-shirt, as he had enough problems getting a taxi without adding a half-clothed companion to the mix. Barsad had responded that he found nothing across his heavily surveilled network. There wasn’t even idle gossip, aside from the usual vague threats that leaked out of Talia’s camp like so much poison. But Talia herself was entangled with an experiment that had gone fatally wrong for her team of scientists working at the North Pole. He fed the name he’d picked up back to Barsad and tried to assess the situation yet again.

John was clinging to him with a different gradient of tension. Hauling him to the apartment doorway he’d indicated, Bane assessed his physical state. John’s head was drooping, the soft lips tucked in on themselves. His gait remained steady, though Bane attributed that to his excellent physique and obvious pride in his own self-possession.

“What have you consumed this evening that wasn’t alcoholic?”

John furrowed his brow. “I had one of the Cub Club cupcakes they handed out. And… some bar peanuts.”

Bane ran his hands through the short, dark hair, sleek beneath his fingers, and rubbed John’s scalp with generous strokes. With a precise grip he activated the pressure points that would relieve nausea and increase alertness. John sighed and twisted with pleasure under his hands. When Bane released his head John seemed to stand a little straighter, able to grapple with the door lock. Bane let him enter first.

The lights flickered on to an open-plan apartment. No ninjas were apparent, though Bane knew you could never immediately tell with ninjas. Moving to the centre of the room, John now a contented bundle clinging to his waist, he took in the potential threats.

There was no detectable presence of non-human predators. Bane quickly ruled out snake, dog, or insectoid attack. The rooms simply weren’t set up to facilitate an effective ambush. Under his hands, John made happy noises. He had not placed himself anywhere near the kitchen knives or any other obvious weapon source.

Bane regarded the passageway between the space’s back quarters and the room they were currently inhabiting. It was dimly lit and narrow- ideal for certain direct combat from a confident offense – but the placement of the kitchen chairs and the stack of newspapers on the floor were sloppy if that was the intention. John clearly possessed natural grace and agility, but his senses were hampered by the alcohol, and judging by the pressure on Bane’s thigh, arousal.

 “You should drink some water.”

 “ _Gnnnngh_.” John peeled off of him and made for the sink.

Bane moved closer to the windows. The locks were slightly better than standard, but would be no real obstacle to a dedicated intruder. Bane pictured himself abseiling down the building and making an entrance from the window above the television. It would be the work of a minute.

“Bane, would you like something to drink?”

He turned back to John slowly. While out of his line of vision John had not taken a fighting stance or grabbed a weapon. The telling look of an approaching warrior – the mixture of arrogance and glee Bane had seen so many times – wasn’t apparent on his face. He looked a little sheepish, and was absentmindedly rubbing the fabric of Bane’s shirt between his thumb and forefinger.

Bane strode over to him and lifted his chin up with one finger, waiting to see if John would squirm under his gaze. Instead his face opened up, the worry lines eroding and that wide, sloppy smile he’d offered Bane on their initial meeting reappeared.

John provided directions to the bedroom. Bane followed them.

 

=

 

The buzz of the shower started as Bane considered the inefficiency of sound proofing in John’s apartment. He was in the bedroom, looking at an impeccably made bed, and though it was unlikely that there would be a sign up on the wall saying ‘I survived the League of Assassins training and all I got was this lousy poster’, there was something naggingly familiar about the sparseness of the room. John’s accent suggested he was native to Gotham, yet his apartment lacked tokens from childhood. Bane had only just got used to how American homes were typically full of clutter, but this one was more bare than he would have expected.

Bane sat on the edge of the mattress and began taking off his boots. His vest was already removed, draped over one of the kitchen chairs. As he undid the laces he was setting up a flow chart in his head, entering in relevant metrics and calculating the probability of certain outcomes.

The bathroom door opened and a moment later, John walked into the bedroom. A towel was wrapped around his waist and beads of water hung on his pale skin.

“I brushed my teeth. So. Uh,”

Bane was sitting with his arms crossed. He forced himself to open them, realizing that he was in a defensive stance. The last few equations solved themselves in his mind, and he drew his conclusion.

Raising his hands to reach for John, who was toying with the hem of the towel in the most disarming manner, he drew him into the circle of his arms.

John let out a sigh of relief, letting his legs fall astride Bane’s as he hooked his hands around his neck.

Bane skimmed his hand down John’s spine. So much fragility, so much risk, lying in between his shoulder blades. Counting down the vertebrae, he paid attention to John’s reaction. He was smushing himself to Bane’s side, trying to get his earlobe in his mouth. Bane had no idea why. But he did know that this man was no hired assassin. No one with any idea who Bane was would let him touch his back like this without flinching.

Their mouths met, and Bane proved that he was a quick study after the initial practice that evening. Suction, and licking, and making sure he kept John’s neck supported as he attempted to place various features of Bane’s face into his mouth. John’s hands were busy stroking over Bane’s scalp, something several of Bane’s previous sexual partners had enjoyed, as he ran his lips over the tough and pitted scar on his brow. That aspect was different for Bane, to be kissed like that over his damage, with no hesitancy or fear. John pulled back, a little short of breath.

“You’re good, you’re good – God, you’re perfect.”

Bane was aware of his magnificence, but it was pleasing to have John acknowledge it.

Rubbing at the taut skin over John’s ribs as the young man concerned himself with gnawing on Bane’s shoulders, he let his hands smooth down the flesh from his narrow hips to the soft rise over his sit bones. John wriggled forward on to him, letting out moans of pleasure as Bane’s fingers kneaded him. The room was lit only by the electric glow of Gotham, the city perched outside the single window like a voyeur. It cast John in shades of marble and smoke. He was exquisitely formed, and even his scattering of scars had the texture of gold thread on silk.

The time had come for the experience of John’s thighs. Bane divested him of the towel and laid him on his side. Kissing him at the same time, as it clearly kept John happy and docile, he rolled his fingers over the hipbone joint and trailed them down, down his legs. Touching was stimulating but Bane wanted to see his hands on John’s fine skin. With them both on their sides he bent over John’s body and drew up his left leg to rest over his own hip. John laughed, and curved around Bane’s bulk like river water over stones.

This was a certain kind of battle, the grappling they did, both seeking for purchase over the other. Getting Bane out of his pants was a triumph for John, who Bane kept pinned to the bed for the duration with only one hand to work with – the other hand stayed entwined with Bane’s own. Bane didn’t help kick them off at all, busy exploring the terrain of John’s neck, ears, and upper shoulders, and expanding his kissing repertoire.

John’s ingenious solution to the pants dilemma involved clamping his thighs around Bane’s legs and hitching them down until the waistband was twisted around his calves. Looming over him, Bane pulled his hand free from John’s and quickly swept it up his inner leg to his penis.

Male anatomy was reliable in some respects. John’s reaction (blasphemy, kicking) was gratifying. Bane even laughed, which led to one of John’s palms pressed over his chest. It was almost an act of reverence, except it was followed by a nipple tweak.

Bane turned on to his back to remove his trousers from his ankles. They contained no weapons or other hazardous items, so he let them fall to the floor.

“Not getting rid of me that easily – ” John clambered over him and returned his attention to the nipple area.

Bane stroked his hair back on his head and stroked his thumbs behind John’s ears, letting his fingers rest over where his skull balanced on his neck. “I have no desire to get rid of you. Quite the opposite.”

“Keep speaking. You rumble when you talk, I can feel it,” John lay his face on Bane’s chest, looking up at him with black eyes. “Right here.”

Bane didn’t immediately know what to say. There were sonnets he had memorized after admiring the elegance of their composition, and he had a vast repository of languages at his disposal. But he felt as though only mathematic equations were appropriate for this occasion, that he could only describe the ways that their bodies touched, the speed of his heart rate, the proximity of their genitals, through calculating the sheer random event of this collision – this was what flew through his mind. He opened his mouth.

“Come closer.”

John stretched up and pushed their mouths together.

A period of rutting motions followed and Bane realized John wanted him to lean back to provide manual access to his underwear. Acquiescing, he folded his hands behind his head and let John judder on his lap, caught between his interest in Bane and a need to agitate for his own pleasure. John’s penis was unaffected by alcohol, Bane noted out loud.

“What, you think I’m that much of a lightweight? Let’s see what I have to work with here,”

That boldness that had marked their initial encounter was back as he peeled back the waistband. Bane deigned to lift his hips a little to get the garment off – it was getting tight over his nether regions. John’s face bent down as he examined Bane’s length, now free to stretch over his lower belly.

When John raised his head his voice was a little slurred. “God… _damn_. This is like the platonic ideal of a cock.”

He touched it with two fingertips and appropriate awe. Bane welcomed this response. Previous potential lovers had displayed different reactions, including fleeing and other evasive techniques.

John cheek lowered to him and brushed up and down. His breath was hot and ragged, and Bane was not unaffected by the performance. A wet, soft suction began, one Bane was familiar with, and he reached for where John’s hands were clasped to his hips to cover them. Anchor him. Encourage more of the same.

It worked. Observing John’s tenacity, he watched his back ripple as his head dipped and rose over and over. Bane’s belly grew warm and the soles of his feet tightened.

Moving to hook one of those lithe thighs in his grasp he drew John’s legs up from where they had kneeled on the bottom of the bed. John caught on in less than ten seconds, lifting and revolving until his knees were either side of Bane’s shoulders. Suction, as Bane had established this evening, was desirable. He took charge of John’s pleasure, noting how his body pulsed and shook.

As John completed, tucked into Bane’s throat, he lifted his own mouth off to gasp. His hands were tight over Bane’s hips, like Bane was the landing shore and John the rising tide. His body sank, and Bane admired the pale flesh of his inner thighs. He nipped it with his teeth. This territory was inviting, as was the curve of his ass. Bane bit that, too.

This was enough provocation for John. “You are too freaking much, you know?”

“I am aware my size is daunting for some -”

“ – no, not _that_ , God. I’m all on that. Let me get my angle back.”

The boy had a competitive streak. It was most amusing.

John’s fingers scratched lightly through the hair on his groin and reached to cradle his sac, and he made eye contact with Bane as that lovely throat fluttered warmly around him.

It was more…more than enough. Bane grunted and lifted John off. He watched his seed streak over John’s hands as he continued to pump away.

Bane inhaled sharply. John was yawning, stretching over to the side table to fish out a packet of Kleenex from the drawer and tossing it back to where Bane lay. It seemed like the motion used the last of his energy, because he sank down with a heavy thunk at Bane’s side.

“Can you check it didn’t get in my hair?”

Bane obliged, patting them both down. John was clearly fatigued. His startled a little when Bane rose up to dim the lights and place the used tissues in the refuse container. He came back to pull back the blankets, John rolling up to make room.

“You can stay, you know? We can do stuff in the morning. If you like, that is.”

His voice was reedy and vulnerable. Bane shushed him and climbed into the bed. Morning was only a handful of hours away, and John would need to maximize his rest time to diminish the effects of intoxication. Lack of sleep would be detrimental to his metabolism.

 

Laying his head back on one arm, he gathered John up against his chest. The young man made snuffling noises while Bane looked to the ceiling and calculated the different safety risks of the apartment. As he constructed a replica of John’s place in his mind, he brought up the mental model of Gotham he had designed and began to incorporate some of the insights this night had provided. His strategy for living in this city had not taken into account certain factors, he understood now, and for the thousandth time he re-enacted a possible ambush by the League of Shadows. John twisted under his grip – the alcohol working through his system, Bane presumed – and slid off to his left. Bane pulled him back up as he turned over a scenario involving tear gas and an attack on Gotham’s pathetically under-prepared utilities services. It was a side project he had discussed with Bruce at work. Wayne Enterprises was pitching for a contract to deliver green energy resources to the city, and as chief security strategist Bane was charged with delivering the most stable plan. He’d already done it, of course, but he had taken to working out what could be done with the rest of Gotham’s infrastructure. It was an academic exercise for now. Lucius would always be interested in his conclusions even if the rest of the board of directors were pitifully short-sighted.

Since Bruce had recruited him, Bane’s life had altered considerably. Turning his back on Talia, Ra’s and the League had been a productive step, for all that the occasional assassination attempt would sometimes interrupt his schedule. The hatred he had long nurtured for this city had transformed, like bitter grapes to fine wine. It was impossible but true: this place now puzzled more than it offended him.

It was still regularly frustrating. He would have to persuade John that his living quarters required far better defenses against aerial assault.

Bane closed his eyes as he pictured the reinforcements he would suggest. The world could not be made any safer. But he would never let himself weaken in the grip of fear. And a sanctuary could be revealed as unexpectedly as a threat.

The most dangerous man in the city let himself sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to khaleesian for the cheerleading that got this flight of fancy off the ground.

**Author's Note:**

> Dictionary definitions s̶h̶a̶m̶e̶l̶e̶s̶s̶l̶y̶ ̶s̶t̶o̶l̶e̶n̶ ̶f̶r̶o̶m̶ thanks to Wikitionary, OSU Pride Center, and Stephen Colbert.


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